


A Million

by Sameshima_Shuzumi, Shusu (Sameshima_Shuzumi)



Category: Yoroiden Samurai Troopers | Ronin Warriors
Genre: Collection: Fandom Stocking 2014, Comment Fic, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 21:57:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3149726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Sameshima_Shuzumi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sameshima_Shuzumi/pseuds/Shusu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rowen reads his way through winter. But not by himself. <i>A fandom_stocking stuffer.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A Million

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tristen84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristen84/gifts).



 

Like a second birthday, Rowen always got his Christmas gifts early, usually some time after the Japan Series when the other ronin knew where to find him. Here a well-thumbed tome from Cye, there a quarto-sized tankōbon from Ryo, another stack of books from Taiwan so both he and Kento could keep up with their dialect studies. He had constructed an air-tight vault for Sage's gifts, which were often priceless loaners: scrolls re-inked in gold, pillow books, Portuguese verses likely with an emperor's fingerprints still on them.

Though Rowen could be enticed outdoors with the promise of a hot meal, he usually spent his winters holed up in his book fort. Even without the papers to grade, or write, he had mountains to conquer, and no amount of traffic through his apartment would deter him, not even a nosy tiger. Sometimes he took his study to a high roof or a steel tower, his armor creating a bubble of vacuum that was better than an archivist's gloves. Those who made tracks across his life knew not to disturb him.

Closer to Christmas, he'd start to emerge. Hagi came first since Cye's holiday was usually spoken-for. Whatever raucous party they had planned, Cye always piled his plate with food so he wouldn't be disturbed, eating one-handed with a chapbook between fingers and thumb. Cye had restored a lookout post over the sea, and Rowen would inevitably join him there past midnight, when the atmosphere was clearer.

Ryo had a hut in the shadow of Fuji-san. He'd sleep in while Ryo went for his morning run, get up in time for fish soup and fried chips, then train. They were both rough around the edges, so the forms came first, but usually they ended up slicing twigs in mid-air or counting how many punches they could dodge. Ryo had fluffy sweaters galore to shield himself from the cold, and Rowen would chose the tackiest one to wear as he sat at the edge of the caldera and waited for Ryo's meditations. Rowen fetched the water, started the coffee, fetched Ryo out of the volcano if need be. He managed to be lazy-boned enough to keep Ryo from refusing his help more than two or three times. Besides, Ryo wasn't the only one pushing his armor; it wasn't easy for Strata to keep Rowen's paperback from combustion while he penciled notes in the margins.

A visit to Sage's meant a visit to the Date family. Rowen always brought his kyudo gear, including the well-worn gloves which had been Sage's first gift to him. After going through the forms with Sage's elders, and pleasing his sisters with gifts from Osaka, he and Sage would retreat to their rooms and change into the single-sleeved robes. Sage would teach him to ride in the summer; in the winter, Rowen taught Sage to aim, to breathe, to let fly. In the softly falling snow, Rowen could forget the cold but for the puffs of steam from his lips when he drew. The rest of the year he could talk Sage's ear off. On these afternoons, they practiced in silence — but for the rhythmic thump of the arrows, the perpetual clicks of the bamboo fountain. When they ran out, they would walk to the targets together, Sage crunching quietly in his wooden sandals, Rowen shuffling along in canvas sneakers, or barefoot. Rowen was used to frigid vacuum; he grinned every time they bumped shoulders, warm.

Lately Kento had been coming to them to pick Rowen up. There was plenty yet to do around Sendai, and strong men with strong backs and ready smiles were sorely needed. Sometimes Kento stayed on till Christmas. Other times he departed with Rowen back to their urban sprawl. Rowen would do his very, very last-minute shopping, perhaps annoy Nasuti if she were in town, and then Kento would smuggle himself out from under his bustling family to hit the town with him. They ate in banquet halls, hole-in-the-walls, and most often on the move, counting their finished skewers like trophies. They took on cosplay karaoke or glo-stick juggling or whatever new internet meme yielded the most selfies. In the deep neon-burnished night they'd wander the streets and alleys, occasionally carrying someone to the nearest warming shelter, sometimes singing, mostly laughing till they cried. Kento would boost Rowen into a tree (the ones near shrines were the best, white with snow and tied-up prayers), and as they waited for sunrise, he'd sling an arm around Rowen's shoulder and ask for a story.

"I've got a million of 'em," Rowen would say.

 


End file.
